About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Nothing says baptism like milk jugs and a wet monkey
I’m happy to be off the cat kick and on to…monkeys. That looks like a monkey, doesn’t it? Chuck thinks it’s a bear. Its name is Mel and thanks to Junior, it was dunked in holy water about 50 times this morning.
At the ripe age of 16 months we finally had Junior baptized. We would have done it sooner, but Chuck had to take Catechism classes and I had to quit my Wiccan knitting circle.
Junior did so well—up until the actual water part. It didn’t help that the priest spoke broken English and kept losing his place in the book. By the time he was ready to douse my kid, Junior was a mess. The only thing that calmed him down was the sight of Mel in the cistern. He’d yell “bat” (bath), pick Mel up and chuck him in again.
Luckily, the priest had a sense of humor. Unluckily, no one told me that the flash from the camera was capturing my leopard-print bra oh so clearly.
Guess who was taking the pictures? Chuck’s dad. The same guy who had a bird’s eye view of my gals that whole picnic back in July (I'm not going to link to that post because I'd like to put the past, ehem, behind me).
Seriously, the guy must think his daughter-in-law is hooter-hyper. Maybe I'll write him a letter:
Dear Chuck's dad,
Please stop taking pictures of my goods, even though I appear to be showcasing them at every family function. In truth, I am a woman of granny bathing suits, not, as you would seem to believe, bursting bijongas. It’s, um, too bad you have actual photos that would seem to prove otherwise. See you at Christmas (I’ll be the one wearing the turtleneck, wink wink). Best, Mrs. Mullet.
Ah hell, maybe I'll just let it go.